


The Blue Star

by FieryPen37



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe-Brothel, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Fellatio, Golden Lace, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rumbelle - Freeform, Rumpled Lace, Smut, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blue Star was where denizens of Storybrooke sought to have their darkest needs met, their innermost lusts slaked. A three-story brownstone hidden in a tangle of old shipping warehouses, it had been a hostel, a speakeasy, a gentleman’s club, and a consignment store in its long history. Now the Blue Star’s proprietor had made it something truly unique. She catered to every proclivity, and her staff was held to the highest standards of taste. The decorations were subtle and tasteful; the first floor served as a restaurant where any citizen could respectably enjoy a drink or some of the most exquisite cuisine this side of the Atlantic. The upper floors, however . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Blue Star

**Part 1**

_The Blue Star was where denizens of Storybrooke sought to have their darkest needs met, their innermost lusts slaked. A three-story brownstone hidden in a tangle of old shipping warehouses, it had been a hostel, a speakeasy, a gentleman’s club, and a consignment store in its long history. Now the Blue Star’s proprietor had made it something truly unique. She catered to every proclivity, and her staff was held to the highest standards of taste. The decorations were subtle and tasteful; the first floor served as a restaurant where any citizen could respectably enjoy a drink or some of the most exquisite cuisine this side of the Atlantic. The upper floors, however . . ._

Miss Blue stood in the mud room, grateful to be out of the horrid weather. Sleet and a horrible biting wind. A nor’easter was brewing if the meteorologist was to be believed, that was if one wished to put their trust in a man with a spray tan and hair gelled to immobility. Miss Blue shook her umbrella and tucked it into the box designed for such a purpose. One of her girls materialized out of the ether, helping to divest her of her calf-length blue coat, gloves, hat and scarf.

“Thank you, Astrid. How is the house?” Miss Blue asked, stepping into the Blue Star which greeted her with the welcome warmth of central heating, soft strains of classical music, muted lighting and gleaming wood floors.

“It’s a full house tonight, ma’am. All the regulars.” The elfin-featured waif trotting at Miss Blue’s heels had made a truly abysmal waitress, costing Miss Blue a fortune in fine china and glass. She had found her stride upstairs though, and one regular, Leroy, refused to take anyone but her. Usually, such favoritism was bad for business, but in Storybrooke, that made for dedicated, high-paying customers.

“Excellent,” Miss Blue replied, her knife-thin smile belaying the rush of pleasure. Weather like this and her dears were snuggled up nice and cozy at the Blue Star. It spoke so potently of their loyalty, and whispered so sweetly of their desperation.  Miss Blue dismissed Astrid with a fond stroke on the cheek. Moving toward the bar, she sought out their resident mechanic.

“Sidney, is the generator fixed?” Miss Blue asked. Their take would not be tarnished by foolish things like the need for electricity. The swarthy mechanic scrubbed grease from his hands.

“It is, ma’am. I finagled with the plumbing too. We’ll have water, even if this turns bad.”

“You’re a magician,” Miss Blue praised, breathing a kiss on the air over his stubbled cheek. The man blushed like a schoolboy, stuttering out his thanks.

“Regina tells me she misses you. I’ll give you two half an hour tomorrow night, on the house,” Miss Blue offered, trailing her fingers down his cheek. Like a taste offered to an addict, Sidney would slaver for more and spend every one of his paychecks in pursuit of that _more_. Men were fools for Regina’s brand of exquisite, smoldering sexuality. And Miss Blue enjoyed granting wishes.

The dinner hour saw Granny Lucas and her minions dancing between tables. Her granddaughter Ruby had also been a waste as waitress, not because of ineptitude, but of wasted potential. Upstairs she could shine, and for substantially greater tips than the rest of Storybrooke could offer. The lights flickered only once as wind groaned and sleet pelted the windows, and Miss Blue smiled. With everything running smoothly, Miss Blue marched to make her rounds upstairs. Thick royal blue carpet muted the rap of her heels on the stairs, their massive bouncer, Jorge, admitting her beyond the velvet rope with a bow.

Clientele of the Blue Star only made it up the stairs by producing a membership token emblazoned with the club’s namesake. These tokens were obtained in two ways: one, it was purchased or bid for by private auction. In fact, Miss Blue could only think of one man on the books who had bought one outright. At the summit of the second floor, Miss Blue consulted the ledger and stroked the shape of his slanting signature. _A. Gold_. The Blue Star’s most loyal customer.

Entry prices were steep, but the payoff was worth it. Bribes were rife to rig to auction, but in the end, Miss Blue filtered all potential members. Poor Dr. Whale would have to wait until next month to try his luck again. Membership tokens at the Blue Star were high-tech, non-transferrable, non-refundable. Miss Blue had actually consulted Gold for the particulars. The man was a genius when it came to fine print.

“Miss Blue, good evening.” A low, Scottish drawl beckoned her from the lounge. Miss Blue’s critical eye roved over her favorite customer, limned by the low glow of a fire. Gold glinted at his cufflinks and the handle of his cane, and the ring he wore winked blue, then red in the flickering light. Power oozed from his lean form, clothed in a perfectly tailored suit. A man who knew what he wanted, and expected it done as a matter of course.  Miss Blue settled into the black wingback chair opposite him, primly smoothing her skirts.

“Good evening, Mr. Gold. What is your pleasure tonight?” she asked politely. His dark eyes flashed, and Miss Blue knew her suppositions were correct.

“We have a standing arrangement, Miss Blue. I do so hate repeating myself.” Miss Blue made a placating gesture.

“Of course, Mr. Gold. I was simply asking if you craved . . . variety.” Gold exhaled through his nostrils and rose, leaning against his cane.

“I am well satisfied with my part of our bargain. Is the room prepared?” Miss Blue dropped his gaze, plucking an imaginary speck of lint from her skirt.

“With this ungodly weather, there was a necessary surcharge . . .” Gold reached for his vest pocket and flicked something on the table. His membership coin met the oak side table with a substantial _clink_.

“Put it on my tab. Have a pleasant evening, Miss Blue.”

“You also, Mr. Gold. Give my regards to Miss French.” 

If pressed, Miss Blue would have chosen someone lean and predatory to suit Gold’s formidable force of presence. Something in the way he carried himself, the essence of his dark reputation lent itself to imagined carnal delights. Ruby, maybe. Or perhaps even Regina. Lacey French had her own brand of cheap, cheeky charm, more suited for hustling pool tables at the Rabbit Hole. Lacey’s saving grace came in her exceptional beauty and certain moral flexibility that Miss Blue admired in herself. Yet it was _this_ offbeat beauty that captured Gold’s interest?

She picked up the coin, holding it tight in her palm. It was still warm from Gold’s body heat. She tucked it into her clutch. She had other calls to make this evening, more wishes to grant. The mystery of Lacey’s allure would remain so as long as Gold paid. And Mr. Gold always honored his agreements. Everyone knew that.    

~

Lacey nodded at Jorge’s signal, pausing to wipe a smudge of pink lipstick from the corner of her mouth in the hall mirror. She winked at her reflection, quelling the flutter of nerves. It was another job, another john. Simple. She’d always liked sex, and at the Blue Star it was clean, safe, and the clientele was an entirely different echelon than what she’d had at the Rabbit Hole. Lacey tugged at the hem of her gold cocktail dress, a silky drape over one shoulder plunging over her cleavage, then clinging to her curves and ending at mid-thigh. Bracelets chimed on her wrists as she tucked a curl behind her ear. The walk was key. Just walk like you own the place, walk like a goddess, and you _are_.

She opened the door to the Rose Room to find him seated, hands gripping the arms of the chair before the fire like a king on the throne. Lacey waited, heartbeat hammering beneath the flimsy protection of her dress. Dark eyes roved over her, hot, possessive and so _hungry_.  Like he wanted to devour her whole.  

“Look at you. _Drenched_ in my color.” His voice emerged rich and deep, syllables mangled by his thickened accent. One look, one whispered phrase, and Lacey was paralyzed by a shivery rush of arousal, as potent as a hit of cocaine. She’d been clean for years, but Gold had become a different addiction. She tilted her head, coy, toying with one of her curls with a darkly painted fingernail.

“You like? Funny little coincidence, really,” she said. His thin, sensual mouth curved in a smirk. Her stomach flipped. He rose and made his way toward her, graceful even with the cane.

“Tease,” he accused, grasping her elbows and yanking her toward him, his grip hard. Beneath his veneer of sophistication, he was a _predator_ , which Lacey found unbearably arousing. Lacey bit her lip, her gaze flickering over him.

“I prefer the term . . . creative,” she purred. Gold hovered close, that knowing smirk still flirting with his lips.

“Liberal-minded, are you?” he said, his breath fluttering warm against her cheek, not quite nuzzling the hair behind her ear. Lacey breathed in, savoring the subtle, masculine scent of his cologne, augmented by the tang of the whisky he favored and the waft of clean silk.     

“You could say that,” she said, one finger lightly tracing his lapel and then the satin-covered buttons of his vest. Gold hummed his noncommittal agreement, his hand covered hers, guiding her to unbuttoning him. Lacey took to the task with alacrity. It had been too long since she’d tasted this: danger and lust, flirtation and slaking, the heady thrill of his hands and mouth on her.

“Not to mention. . .” he began in her ear, dropping a trail of moist, burning kisses along her jawline. His hand slid up her biceps and along her exposed back. These were not the hands of a man who lifted only a pen his whole life. He had worked with his hands at one time; calluses roughened palms and fingers, rasping deliciously against her skin.

“You’re not afraid of me. That’s more than most of Storybrooke can say.” She bit down on a gasp as he nibbled delicately on the shell of her ear. As he was distracted worrying her skin with his teeth, she finished her handiwork on his shirt.

“I like complicated men,” she said, she raked her fingernails down his lean belly. Gold hissed, burning eyes meeting hers.

“Enough,” he rasped, grasping her errant wrist. The ring glittered between them. Moonstone, Lacey knew. She’d looked it up; she had never seen a stone that _blue_ before.    

“Where do you want me?” she asked breathily, already wet and hiding her trembling. He’d barely touched her and she _ached_. Just a taste, that’s all she needed. A taste of this sweet, hot magic they made together.

“Hands and knees on the bed. Now.” Lacey hastened to obey, biting her lower lip.

The mound of down comforters was turned down, leaving only a four-poster bed of satin sheets, richly scarlet in the low firelight. Lacey crawled up on the bed, a toss of her head flinging her mussed curls down her back. Gold made no move to touch her at first. Lacey’s breathing quickened, aroused by the thought of him watching, _wanting_. In the soft quiet, the tinkle of his belt buckle and sibilant sound of his trouser zipper were abnormally loud. Gold’s warm hand cupped her hip through the dress, stealthily wadding the silky fabric. He groaned when he found her without underwear.

“Naughty girl.” Lacey stifled a low moan at the sound of his voice, a husky whisper that felt as hot as the touch of his hand. Gold’s fingers moved over her silky flesh, curling knowingly around her clit. Her hot ache sharpened into the sweet, silvery beginnings of pleasure. The callused pad of his index finger circled, gently circled . . .

“So wet,” Gold growled. God, his _fingers_ . . .

“Fuck, Gold. Get on with it.” Lacey bit the words out, half a breath from begging for it. A hitch of breath, his free hand braced her, and he thrust into her in one sharp stab of his hips. Oh fuck _yes_ , there he was! Hot, thick and so _hard_ . . .

“This what you wanted, pet? Hmm?” Gold was just as wrecked and hungry as she was, she could hear it in the faint tremor running through his voice, feel the subtle tremble in his grip on her hip. That was almost as good as the pleasure building inside, agitated by his smooth tempo of thrusts. Lacey arched back, pulling him deeper.

“That’s good, baby. Just like that,” she said in a soft, broken whisper.

His stamina was impressive, and skill enough to have any woman he wanted writhing beneath him. But he chose _her_. Lacey focused on her breathing, on the calculated undulations designed to enflame him, anything other than the knowing circular kneading of his fingers on her clit and the obscene rhythmic slap of sweaty flesh meeting. Gold’s blunt fingernails dug into her hip, his breath harsh and sawing. He was a reserved lover. Even underneath the onslaught of Lacey’s admittedly talented mouth, all she earned was a low grunt, at most a muttered explicative.  

Sex was a battlefield between them, and pleasure their chosen weapon. Oh . . . _oh._ This round was slipping through her fingers. There it was, that delicious tension, that shimmer of pleasure building in her nerves goaded by his teasing fingers, his glorious cock, that long, wicked tongue lapping the sweat from the back of her neck—Lacey’s cry of completion emerged in a breathy whine, inner muscles clamping down. Her vision whited out for a moment, lost in that clenching, mindless euphoria. Dimly, she heard Gold’s tortured groan, felt the heat of his semen inside her as he came. Her arms gave out beneath her and she pressed her sweaty cheek against the cool fabric, tangled curls obscuring her vision. Boneless in the pulsating languor following her orgasm, Lacey turned her head to accept his kiss, messy and perfect. She nipped his lip as she pulled away, intensely aware of his naked cock inside her, still deliciously hard.

“You marvelous bastard,” she rasped in the voice of a woman well-fucked. Greed was a vice they shared. What could be better than another round of fun before their time was up? Lacey arched sinuously, feeling the weight of his balls against the cleft of her arse.

“Had some . . . pharmaceutical help this evening, yeah?” she purred, kittenish and coy as she nibbled on the sleeved arm braced beside her. Gold growled, pulling out. His open palm smacked her arse, a stinging blow on her right cheek that educed a squawk of mingled affront and arousal.  

“Behave, Miss French,” Gold said, smacking her left cheek for good measure. The pain, a sharp sting followed by a flush of almost-pleasure. Time to get the upper hand back. She crawled to one side, avoiding his striking hand. She rucked up the hem of her dress, swatting Gold’s hand as he tried to assist her.

“Patience, Mr. Gold,” she shot back. Lacey made a show of wiggling free of her dress, throwing a coy wink over her shoulder as she peeled off her bra. Fuck, the sight of Gold kneeling on the edge of the bed, half-dressed with his erect cock gleaming with her slick was something to linger over later, when another john labored over her that didn’t arouse her half so well. Lacey moved up to the head of the bed and sprawled on the nest of pillows, wearing nothing but her hair and the strappy gold heels he hadn’t given her time to discard.

Eyes dilated to pools of black, lip curled in a ravenous snarl, he looked like a beast. Her beast. That thought struck a chord deep in her, to her childhood dreams where she was lost in a forest, endlessly searching for a way _back_. Lacey found her practiced smile, parting her legs to reveal her naked sex and his seed smeared on her thighs. Anthony Gold was a possessive man. One look at her adorned with his seed usually had him on her like white on—moving faster than any man with a limp had the right to, Gold insinuated himself between her legs. 

“How do you want me?” she asked, with a pointed smile. A quick reminder of where they were and what she was, anything to dispel that surge of . . . of whatever that was. Gold grabbed her right leg, lifting it up to leave a biting kiss on the tender inside of her ankle. Lacey exhaled a soft breath. That was unexpectedly good.

“I want you underneath me, impaled on my cock, screaming the walls down with the pleasure I give you.” He lifted her left leg to join its twin braced on his shoulders. Fucking bastard, he knew she loved it when he talked dirty. 

“I want to fuck you into the mattress until all you remember is my cock in you, my tongue in your mouth, your fingernails imbedded in my back.” Lacey moaned, both at his words and the feel of the blunt head of his cock, weeping fluid, nudging her swollen clit.

“I want you to come so hard you forget your own name.” Leaning over her, Gold licked his index finger, oh those clever fingers! He rolled her nipples between index and thumb, very lightly pinching. Lacey stroked his thighs, the scrape of her nails muted by his trousers.

“Such a good boy. Oh, are you going to be a good boy and fuck me like you promised?” she breathed, arching toward the fleeting pressure of his cockhead. Even buzzing from her orgasm, Lacey wanted his cock in her, close and hot and hers.

“I always honor my agreements,” Gold replied. He teased her, easing the head in then pulling out to circle her clit. Payback, she thought. Last time, she’d made him come three times in their allotted hours, the last time he was begging her to fuck him. Gold made quite a sight above her, face framed by her heeled feet, sweaty, mussed and snarling.

“You . . . you promi—ah!” Lacey began, silenced by the sudden flex of his hips, sinking halfway in. Not enough, fuck it wasn’t enough!

“Nng, more. Fuck. Gold, more!” Lacey lay immobilized by the press of his pelvis and his lean arms braced at her sides. The bastard had the nerve to gloat.

“Now, now Lacey. Where are our manners?” Gold drawled, a pinch at her clit making her see stars.

“Please. _Please_.” She capitulated, already striving toward another release. Gold’s first hard upward thrust struck her sweet spot, and she came howling and clawing and thrashing beneath him. Soaked with sweat and dripping juice, she watched through bleary eyes as Gold pounded into her with lightning fast thrusts. One final slam, a low groan and Gold rode out his own orgasm, emptying himself inside her.

 Together, they collapsed in a boneless sprawl of lazy kisses and languorous caresses. Lacey usually found the cuddling and pillow talk after sex supremely boring, even smothering. But trading drags on one of Gold’s unfiltered cigarettes with his heartbeat underneath her ear felt . . . _nice_. Jorge’s light knock broke the peace. Lacey struggled on weak knees to the heap of her discarded clothing, feeling Gold’s semen trickle down her thigh. His gaze wandered over her appreciatively, especially as she bent over. Lacey offered a cheeky smile, blowing him a kiss.

“Until next time,” she said. Hollowing out his cheeks as he sucked down a drag, Gold smirked, smoke curling out his nostrils.

“Next time, Miss French.”

 

Two more clients, each tedious regulars, and Lacey made her way downstairs for breakfast after she’d showered. She smothered a yawn in her hand, sliding onto the barstool next to Ruby. The restaurant was now a forest of upturned mahogany chairs; Sidney’s minions were now busily waxing the floors in preparation for another night. Above the bar, a flat-screen TV droned on the toll of last night’s storm.

“How was your night?” Lacey asked, bare feet swinging in idle circles. Ruby shrugged, pouring Lacey a cup of coffee.

“Nothing special. Miss Blue gave me a couple naughty boys and one _very_ naughty mechanic.” Ruby’s lupine grin gave away her favorite. Lacey snickered into her coffee cup.

“Gus came by again? How can he afford a bid?” she asked.  Ruby tossed her loose red-streaked hair over her shoulder.  Granny set Lacey’s usual order of pancakes and bacon on the counter before her.

“Thanks, Granny.” The bacon was crispy and perfect, a smoky counterpoint to the coffee’s rich bitterness.

“He fixed a flat for Miss Blue last week. Must’ve called in the favor.” Lacey chewed thoughtfully, drawn to thoughts to another of Storybrooke’s denizens with a penchant for deals. Her gaze wandered to the TV as she tucked into her breakfast.

_“In other news, our small town Storybrooke woke to a surprise. A yellow Volkswagen crashed into the town’s sign early this morning. Early reports state the driver was unharmed, though her blood alcohol level was elevated. More on this as it develops.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

 

 

Emma smirked sidelong at the sheriff as she shrugged on her red leather jacket against the spitting Maine drizzle.

“Try keeping your eyes on the road this time!” Sheriff Graham called after her, his words smoothed by his soft accent and a smile.

“I’m not making any promises, Sheriff,” Emma shot back. Easy on the eyes, that one. She’d done her job, seen the kid safely home. The ‘but’ lingered in the back of her mind as she slid into her Bug, jiggling the key a little before the engine coughed to life. Miss Blue wasn’t one Emma would have pegged as the mothering type; there was something brittle and contained about her. Emma’s superpower pealed madly when the woman had said she loved Henry. The older woman had been lying.

She had to make sure the kid was all right, that he was happy. First she needed breakfast to soak up the last of Miss Blue’s hard cider, and a place to sleep off the last of her headache. Emma shivered, cranking the heat up full blast. Preferably someplace warm. The diner was closed, but around the corner Emma spotted a bed and breakfast. Rustic-type place, Emma envisioned a crackling fire and a heap of quilts. Add a muffin and a hot chocolate to that picture, and she’d be right as rain.

“Well I’m sorry my heart attack kept you from whoring your way down the East Coast! Shouldn’t you be resting? You’ve a shift tonight!” A strident voice greeted Emma as she stepped inside, smoothing rain-snarled curls.

“Ugh! One of these days, I’ll get out on my own.  And do you want to know the best part, Granny?  I’ll never have to listen to _you_ again!” A younger, shriller voice accompanied the clatter of heels down the stairs. A lanky young woman and an older woman stood on the landing, both looking at Emma with mirroring expressions of embarrassment and surprise. The older woman recovered first.

“Oh, hello. How can I help you?” she said.

“Uh, I’d like a room,” Emma said, stuffing her hands in her pockets.

“Would you like a square view or garden view?” ‘Granny’ bustled behind a cobwebbed desk and opened a dusty ledger.

“Square view’s fine,” Emma said. Granny’s smile was welcoming as she looked up.

“How long will you be with us?” she asked. Emma pursed her lips. Time enough to see that the kid was fine, and get back to Boston.

“A . . . a week. Just a week,” she said softly. Granny nodded, pen poised over the ledger.

“And a name for the room?”

“Swan. Emma Swan.” Faintly, she heard the door creak open behind her, and a soft, rhythmic tap.

“Emma.” She turned at the sound of her name to find a man in the doorway, rain beaded on his black coat. As a bail bondsperson she had a lot of practice at reading people, and this guy was more than just a suit. He watched her with sleepy dark eyes, an odd little smile curling at his lips. Like he knew her, like he’d been waiting for her.

“What a lovely name,” he said, in a deep, faintly accented voice.  Emma arched a brow at him, faintly challenging to cover the rush of nerves.

“Thanks,” she replied, turning back to Granny. The older woman produced a thick roll of bills bound by a rubber band.

“It’s all here,” she said, glaring at the man. A ring glinted on his hand as he took the roll and tucked it into his pocket.

“Yes, yes. Of course it is, dear. Thank you.” His gaze dismissed both Granny and the younger woman before settling again on Emma.

“Enjoy your stay. Emma,” he said, with a peculiar emphasis on her name that made her grind her teeth. The air seemed to be sucked from the room as he left.

“Who was _that_?” she asked.

The younger girl flicked aside the curtain to watch him go and said, “That’s Mr. Gold. He owns this place.”

“The inn?” Emma asked.

“No. The town,” Granny said.

~

_With nothing but the shades of his lost loves and his many failures to keep him company, madness crouched close in the Charming’s lovely gift to him. Cozy, really. Bare stone walls, the bitter aftertaste of scorched magic, rats and the dripping teeth of his prison. A fine thanks for his aid. The soft flutter of wings, a tinkle of notes and the reek of fairy magic roused him. He leapt from his perch among the stalactites and approached his much-loathed enemy._

_“Of all the bargains I’ve struck, I never expected to see_ you _here, Rheul Ghorm,” he sneered. The flitting, glittering fairy appeared serene in her bubble of blue light._

_“I told you long ago, Rumplestiltskin, your magic is limited by its own rotten core. It seems your mind is so as well.” Rumplestiltskin’s lips thinned at the jibe. No matter. His curse would be cast in a matter of hours, and then this insect wouldn’t vex him._

_“Why are you here? To gloat over the Dark One, vanquished at last?” His twisting gesture was eloquent with mockery. The fairy’s tiny brow furrowed. Her warbling voice held something he once would have relished: fear._

_“The Evil Queen contends with forces beyond her ken. In this new land, I would see good triumph at last.” His lips peeled back to reveal a monster’s rotted teeth._

_“A curse to end all curses, remember? You and I will be as powerless as she without magic.”_

_“But you crafted the curse, did you not? Besides, I have a pawn who might interest you.” She flicked her wand, summoning an image. Snarled chestnut curls, a round pale face, blue eyes staring into nothing, surrounded by stone and iron and loneliness. Rumplestiltskin lunged, capturing the fairy in one taloned hand. Her wand jabbed, a cloud of fairy dust pelted his scales. It burned like acid on his skin, but he did not relinquish his iron grip._

_“What lies have you conjured?” he spat._

_“It’s the truth. The Evil Queen has her captive. I can free her at a cost . . .” The Blue Fairy squirmed as he tightened his fingers._

_“And still claiming to be good, are we?” The fairy’s face was creased in pain, in defiance. Rumplestiltskin’s eye was drawn to the phantom of Belle, huddled on a mean little cot, chained to a fucking wall._

_“Name your price,” he said._

 

  

The man who had once been Mr. Gold sat in the back room of his shop, contemplating three items: the dagger emblazoned with his name, his chipped cup, and the Blue Star’s gold token. The last belonged to Mr. Gold, the much-loathed pawnbroker and landlord of the fictional Storybrooke. The Blue Star, a whorehouse posing as a pillar of the community. Rather fitting considering the proprietor. If the Blue Fairy was awake as he was, Emma’s arrival would signal the beginning of her ‘good triumph’ . . . if she was sincere. If not, then that duplicitous insect would fight tooth and claw to maintain the Curse.

Bae was so close now; Rumplestiltskin couldn’t risk tangling with the foe who had taken his son from him in the first place. His best course of action was to do exactly what Mr. Gold would have done, with one glaring exception. But even as the plan formed, the lonely spinner and hungry Dark One conspired in his mind, presenting him with images and sensations of . . . of _Belle_. Rumplestiltskin bowed his head, smote by crushing guilt and devastating lust by turns. That wretched fairy had had her revenge in returning Rumplestiltskin’s True Love to him by making her a whore. _Belle_ . . . or rather, the cursed imitation of her, Lacey. The horrible, heart-wrenching truth of it was that he saw so much of Belle in Lacey: her courage, her independence, her intelligence, her soul-deep beauty and reckless impulsivity.   Gods, when the curse broke, would Belle forgive him for his many transgressions, both by the Curse’s debauchery and rejecting her so cruelly in their land? Or worse now, after he’d woken and craved her? There was no answer, but time had taught him one thing for certain: people left. More specifically, people left _him_. It was his life’s painful pattern.

His cursed persona was a regular patron of the Blue Star, and it only made sense to carry about his routine. If there was the dual benefit of looking upon his True Love and trying to make her love him, then Rumplestiltskin wasn’t going to complain.

~

 

The house was abuzz with the news of the newcomer. Storybrooke hadn’t had a stranger come in _forever_. Lacey chatted with Ruby in the parlor on the upper floors as they cleaned themselves and touched up their makeup between johns.

“So she’s a cop?” Lacey asked, expertly dabbing concealer on a hickey left by an enthusiastic Greg Aston.  Enthusiastic, slobbery, with no respect for foreplay, like a bloody sheepdog. Not that Lacey would know from experience, she thought with a snicker.

“No, not a cop. A bail bondsman. Woman, whatever,” Ruby said, smoothing another coat of lipstick on her lips.

“And Henry is her biological son?” Lacey asked, imagining the boy with his messy brown hair and his nose stuck in a book. His smiles were hard won, but Lacey had always had a soft spot for the kid. He had a mom like Miss Blue, and Lacey had her deadbeat dad, who only crawled out of a bottle long enough to piss away what little money he’d earned. There was camaraderie in that.

“Yeah. Crazy, huh?” Ruby met her eye in the reflection of the mirror. The two of them were quiet for a moment. What miserable kid didn’t pray for someone to storm in and lift them away from their sad life? It was a fairy tale. Lacey guessed sometimes kids got lucky.

“Crazy,” Lacey said in soft agreement. A deep secret thought wished for a bump of coke, just a quick jolt to ward away the press of sadness and the faintest tinge of envy. Lacey’s mom had left when she was three.

“You gonna see Gold tonight?”

She latched onto the delicious train of thought, a catlike smile stretching across her face.

“With any luck. My day’s been shit so far. I could use some entertainment.”

The Rose Room embraced her with the heat of the fire and silence. Miss Blue’s adherence to standards of taste dictated that even in the throes of lust, the Blue Star’s patrons wouldn’t be disturbed by squeaking bedsprings or the distinctive thump of headboards. Lacey grinned; Gold wasn’t there yet. During the tedium of her last john, she’d concocted a scenario she knew would push Gold’s buttons. She arrayed the props on the small table then slipped into the en suite bathroom to touch up her costume. Lacey bent over to stoke the fire to the appropriate roaring blaze when she heard the door creak open and the distinctive tap of his cane. Hiding a smirk at this serendipitous entrance, Lacey straightened, slowly. She turned, slowly, letting her full blue skirts swish.

“Good evening, sir. Would you care for some tea?”

He loomed in the doorway, seeming to take up so much more space than such a slender man merited, as if the air quivered and electrified around him. His face was inscrutable, save for the eyes. His eyes _burned_. Lacey saw this and his white-knuckled grip on his cane with a warm frisson of pleasure. It was in her interest to restore the balance in their interaction. Last night had seen her clawing and begging, nearly weeping for more. It scared her even as she reveled in it.

“Yes. Set it on the table,” he said at last, closing the door behind him with an authoritative _thump_. In keeping with the master returning to the house, Gold shucked off his suit coat and loosened the perfect Windsor knot to his black tie. The three-piece Armani looked damned fine on him. Lacey poured a cup of tea—filched from Granny’s kitchen—and set it on the round end table. Something tickled her brain at the scene, an unsettling sense of déjà vu. Where had she--?  He sat and sipped the tea with an air of supreme indifference, as if it was his just due in life to be waited upon. Accepting his silent challenge, Lacey sought to unravel that taut composure. She moved behind the chair with a soft whisper of skirts and began to knead his shoulders, so warm and solid through the dark purple fabric of his shirt.

“So tense. A difficult day, sir?” she whispered, lips brushing his ear. The firm kneading of her thumbs against his shoulders drew a stifled moan from him, his head tipping forward to grant her easier access.

“You could say that, dear,” he said huskily. Silence fell between them as she continued her massage, the fire crackling and murmuring to itself. Her fingers crept up his neck to knead his scalp, lost in his fine dark hair. Gold hummed his approval, tilting his head back in her grip. Lacey felt a pang of lust at the look in his sleepy dark eyes, a look ripe with longing. Something was different about him tonight. He was still her powerful predator, the monster of Storybrooke, but there was an air of vulnerability in him that snagged at her heart.  He _wanted_ as deeply and as powerfully as she wanted.

“Let me make it better,” she said, releasing him long enough to circle the chair and kneel between his knees. She’d meant to draw out the seduction until he begged for it, but her own impatience got the better of her. She wanted to touch, to _taste_. He was hard, she could see the shape of him in his trousers; her mouth watered. Lacey dealt with his belt and zipper, drawing his cock out, his foreskin retracted to reveal the flushed head.

“Mmm, let me make it better, sir,” she said again, lapping the salty fluid from the tip of his cock. Gold stifled his low growl, hips flexing slightly toward her. Lacey grinned, promising wickedness with her eyes as she drew the head of his cock into her mouth. Gold had a beautiful cock, thick and hard, and was sensitive to her every lick and touch. Sucking him off filled her with a giddy sense of power.  She took him deeper, feeling the echo of his heartbeat and heard every shaky exhalation that betrayed the depth of his pleasure. Her rhythm was torturous and slow, savoring every gasp, the taste of his sweat, his pulsing heat.

“Gods, don’t . . . don’t stop,” he rasped, burying his fingers in her hair, tugging just hard enough to hurt. Fuck, that felt _good_. She was already squirming under the onslaught of her own arousal, clenching around a wet, empty ache. She eased off him with a lewd pop.

“Are you going to come for me? Be a good boy and come in my mouth,” Lacey breathed, punctuating the words with coy kitten licks on the underside of his cock.

“ _Yes_ ,” he growled, looking wrecked and feral, a faint tug on her hair urging her back. She pressed back, unable to resist the urge to tease him.

“Say it, Gold,” she urged. Something changed in his expression, crumpled almost. A yawning anguish opened in his eyes and Lacey unconsciously kneaded his thighs through his trousers. The expression cleared to a more familiar look of lust, a fierce, almost angry lust.

“Suck me,” he said sharply, thin lips twisted into a snarl. Lacey obeyed, wanting to cripple him with pleasure, make him want her every second of every day, just like—no, Lacey wouldn’t think that. No one decided her fate. She focused, drawing him in deep and suckling greedily. Her hand moved up to cradle his balls and his orgasm crashed over him. Hot semen flooded her mouth and she swallowed it down, his clutching grip making him irrevocably hers. Lacey eased off his softened cock, licking an oozing drop of come from the corner of her mouth.

Gold uttered a sound remarkably close to a whimper and hauled her into his lap. His mouth found hers in a messy, marauding kiss. Lacey moaned softly and sucked on his tongue, pliant and catlike in his grip. He pulled back, dark eyes glittering. Lacey would have kissed him again, or at least ground down on his lap to tease him, but he did something he had never done before; Gold cupped her cheek, smoothing a curl that escaped her coiffure behind her ear. It rattled her; they were fuck buddies at best, they had playfulness, even faint affection, but never tenderness. Never this soft look, this . . . this . . .

“Gold?” she asked softly. Gold blinked, swallowed. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a faint smirk.

“Shall we retire? I suspect I might require further tending, dear,” he said. Lacey blinked, jolted back to their game of master and naughty maid. Was his tenderness manufactured? The smile she summoned wobbled, but she found her feet again by yanking him close by his tie to kiss him: a glancing, playful smack.

“At your service, sir,” she purred.

Together they rose and approached the bed and Lacey’s nimble fingers divested them both of the remainder of their clothing. She took a moment to glory in his body. So often they only partially removed their clothing; nakedness implied too much intimacy. A bloody shame, Lacey realized now. The eroticism of naked skin was intoxicating. There was an odd tension in his form, a tightness around his mouth that spoke of dissatisfaction. Beneath the hot prick of pique, Lacey felt a jittery sort of fear settle in the pit of stomach. What didn’t he like? What had soured it? The hot magic she and Gold made together was still there, simmering with every touch, but . . . something was _wrong_.

On impulse, Lacey cupped his chin, stroking his lower lip with her thumb. Her gaze flickering between the temptation of his mouth and the intent dark eyes, Lacey gave in to the nameless longing, leaning close to press her lips to his. Gold remained unmoved for one dizzying second, then two. Then every molecule of him seemed to surge toward her. He seized control of the kiss, overwhelming Lacey with the skillful thrust of his tongue, the magic heat and plushness of his lips. A deep ache pierced her, in her loins, in her chest. When Lacey opened her eyes, she was laid back on the bed with Gold looming over her, luminous and hungry.

“Let me,” he rasped, hovering. As he spoke, his lips tickled her chin. Lacey sucked down deep breaths, fighting for thought and distance. He’d stolen the advantage with those marvelous kisses, melting her brain.

“Yes, yes,” she said, with scarcely enough air to enunciate. No artifice left between them. Her whole being was a quivering mass of surrender, the wet ache between her thighs and the horrible truth deeper inside. She’d fucked up; she’d gone and developed a massive crush on one of her clients. Gold’s eyes shone with a fierce joy, so unlike his usual calculated reserve. What he wrought on her body could only be described as worship, as if he’d waited centuries for her.

Ruthless in pursuit of her pleasure, merciless in his onslaught of sensation, Gold used his knowledge of her body like a master musician. A soft bite on her collarbone, then the hot suction of his mouth on her nipple, combined with the gentle crook of his fingers inside her sent her into a blinding climax. The pleasure blurred into an indistinguishable tangle as he unraveled her sanity with those deft spinner’s fingers, his silver tongue. Spinner’s fingers? Lacey puzzled over the thought for a weary handful of seconds, shuddering at the feather-soft kisses he dropped on her inner thighs. She petted his sweat-damp hair, a myriad of brown, grey, and glints of gold. Languid, she caressed his sides with the soles of her feet. He leaned close and _fuck_ , just the caress of his breath on her wet, swollen clit was enough to have her squirming.

“More?” he asked, and his low voice was as sensual as a touch.

“Please, please don’t go,” she said, spine bowing up toward the phantom caress of his tongue.

“Never. I’m never letting you go again,” he growled. His fingers surged inside her, his mouth suckled her clit and Lacey came in hard, wrenching spasms.

“I need you. Please, I need you,” she said, tugging him up to where she wanted him within the sweet prison of her twining limbs, kissing her, atop her, _in_ her. He kissed her, deep and sweet and the nagging pressure in her head ceased, like her ears popping.

“Yes!” she cried as he penetrated her. At last! There was only pleasure, only glory and joy as he thrust deep once, twice and brought them both to climax. She basked in his heat, his weight and closeness, the delicious lassitude of lovemaking.

“I love you, Rumple,” Belle whispered into his sweat-damp hair and felt his sweet smile against her neck.     

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumbelle smut to bring in the New Year. Enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Cursed!smut and Beasty Rum. Yay.


End file.
